Sometimes She Dreams
by ThyHeavenlyYard
Summary: She dreams of him, that dearly beloved figure of hers.


Sometimes I have dreams about loving someone.

It's never quite a solid figure. I can't tell who it is. Perhaps it's the same person. Maybe not. I don't know. But he is always there, in my dreams. He's there, and I run towards him. I pray he is not an illusion, a fantasy, and I scream out a quiet plea not to disappear and board another train without me. But he waits. He is real. He is with me. And then suddenly we are in each other's arms, and there's the faint sound of laughter and good will and I am sick to the stomach of those stupid things, and so that all disappears and we are left with dead, rotten things in this wasteland called a dream. My dream. And there are precious beautiful little things scattered about, things that are called "relationships" and "people" and we set out to crush every single one. It's fun, watching them shatter into a thousand fragments. It's better than hearing a little bird screech out as its wings are being torn off by clumsy hands.

He speaks his name, but it slips my mind. I don't want to remember it, really. But it's alright. He can tell me again, and again. Every time I ask, he'll tell. He promised. He promised me everything. He told me, he said, he said, and he said he would never break his promise. If I asked, he would tell. He is such a beautiful, dazzling figure, and I want him. He is mine, and together, he said, together, we would… together…

My dreams are about loving him. I don't know how it can be called a love, but I love him. It's an unconventional love, one sprung from both envy and admiration. Mutual attraction. A strange love.

I love him so very much. When he holds my hands, I'm so confused. It's an honor, because he doesn't let anyone else touch him. I want him to continue holding my hand. It scares me that the simple action can mean so much. There's such a peaceful harmony between the two of us. He's the night and I'm the night and sometimes, outside of dreams and in reality, when we wander, there's a mutual understanding and connection and it feels so natural, and we are silent except for a few sighs, as if nothing else needs to be said. We don't need to speak there. Our thoughts concur, always. But whenever I do see him, in this odd, stilted life called a dream, I want to cut him apart. So I do. Starting from the basics, the flesh-ah, I tear open his throat, or his stomach, and bury my hands within the warmth of the still pumping blood coursing through his veins. And then I begin to feel life, truly feel life! He's warm, alive, breathing; there's blood on my hands, and I want to nuzzle up against the warmth, for surely it's like rubbing my face against a kitten's pelt. Then maybe, he'll never ever leave me, because his heart will be in my hands and by a little squeeze, I can cause all the pain I want. He taught me to destroy, and I'm using it to save him. If he leaves, I'll burn him. So if he stays, and remains, and not cause himself unnecessary pain, then he will be fine. I rip out his heart, that bloody, pumping organ, and he is redeemed.

I love him. He belongs to me. He's such a beautiful, shining figure, as if he's wearing a suit of shining armor. A person stepped right out from the pages of an obscure fairy tale, just for me. He is mine. All mine. No one is allowed to defile this holy, impure Knight of mine. Sometimes I want to huddle up right against him. Nothing else-just a quiet hug. Contact between two bodies. I would love that, to do that with him. He would be all mine, then. Mine, mine—in my arms, his head in my embrace, bodies entwined together as I press my cheek against the top of his head. Mine, my legs twisted around his, a simple, innocent embrace. I want him to press his ear against my chest, and listen quietly to my heart beating. And then he would know that if my heartbeat stopped, then he would have to stop his. And he wouldn't be able to move, because he'll be with me and he would never want to leave. That is the greatest beauty of it. He wouldn't want to leave, but let himself remain caged to his own delusions. Mine. He knows that he's mine. He listens to my every order, thinks himself free, despite being the one chained until he is immobile. I get bored. He is an idiot. I love him, but he is stupid and unseeing and unable to understand. But I need him, in order to function. Otherwise, I would simply fly off and disappear into that nothingness, that void of colorful emotions and flashing pain. He keeps me here. I don't burn things when he is with me. When I am with him, I am safe.

I tell him to love me. I want him. I want him to love me. He's so dark, bottomless. It's appealing. I want him to hold onto my legs or my waist in some tight, unrelenting embrace. I want him, here and now. I want-need, him. It's physical. It's something my body craves and yet finds itself shuddering against. But what I'm looking for isn't something like sex. No, I'm searching for some other sort of love. He refuses, and mockingly throws a laugh at my direction. He knows that I am a fool and that he is a fool and that somehow we've been thrown in this endless dream of mine and that he has no power, absolutely none, in this little reality of mine. I like watching him. He's fun to watch, because he instinctively knows everything and yet doesn't know exactly how to react sometimes. I watch and watch and he is so unresponsive, and so I take his hand just to see his reaction. He looks at me mockingly, despite being at a disadvantage. I hate those who make fun of me. And so I kill him. I tear apart his limbs, grind his hand, where his name is, to powder with quick, rapid stomps. I jam my heels into his eyes, but not so hard as to pierce his brain. I let loose the entrails he won't need in the next few hours by using a scalpel, before drowning him when he asks to quench his thirst by pouring water down his throat. As he chokes, I let him breathe by puncturing a hole in his throat. I think I see that void, that reasonless world, when I look at him curled up and bleeding on the ground. I know what my true name means, then. I want to confirm it, to make sure I haven't gotten anything mixed up. I stop for a little bit, and then I ask,

"Will you love me now?"

And he says no, somehow, despite his destroyed throat, because his name isn't the same as mine. So I let him hang on the executioner's rope.


End file.
